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And so the prince obscured his contemplation
Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,
Grew like the summer-grass, fastest by night,
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. 20-i. 1.
The single and peculiar life is bound,
With all the strength and armour of the mind,
To keep itself from ’noyance; but much more
That spirit, upon whose weal depend and rest
The lives of many. The cease of majesty
Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw
What's near it, with it: it is a massy wheel,
Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount,
To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things
Are mortised and adjoin'd; which, when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone
Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.
A sceptre, snatch'd with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain’d:
And he, that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up. 16-iii. 4.
The presence of a king engenders love
Amongst his subjects, and his loyal friends;
As it disanimates his enemies.
Never was monarch better fear'd and loved,
Than is your majesty; there's not, I think, a subject,
That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness
Under the sweet shade of your government. 20—ii. 2.
Within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits,
Seoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!
318 We are no tyrant, but a Christian king; Unto whose grace our passion is as subject, As are our wretches, fetter'd in our prisons. 20—i. 2.
319 O hard condition! twin-born with greatness, Subjected to the breath of every fool, Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect, That private men enjoy ? And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in? O ceremony, shew me but thy worth! What is the soul of adoration ? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men ? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose.
320 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world-
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill’d, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread;
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. 20-iv. l.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
The shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason, wait on him.
The colour of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
323 O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night!--sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour, worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety.
19-iv. 4. 324
Let me speak, sir, For Heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they 'll find them truth. This royal infant, (Heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness : She shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness) A pattern to all princes, living with her, And all, that shall succeed: Sheba was never More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue, Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces, That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her: Truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her: She shall be loved and fear'd: Her own shall bless
her: Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows
In her days, every man shall eat in safety
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
God shall be truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: But as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phænix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one, (When Heaven shall call her from this cloud of
darkness) Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd: Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations: He shall flourish, And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches To all the plains about him:-Our children's children Shall see this, and bless Heaven.
Now call we our high court of parliament:
And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel,
That the great body of our state may go
In equal rank with the best-govern'd nation.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees,
That want their leader, scatter up and down,
And care not who they sting in his revenge.
22-iii. 2. 327 No simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility, This should'ring of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill event. 'Tis much, when sceptres are in children's hands; But more, when envy breeds unkind division; There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
This late dissension, grown betwixt the peers,
Burns under feigned ashes of forged love,
And will at last break out into a flame:
As fester'd members rot but by degrees,
Till bones, and flesh, and sinews, fall away,
So will this base and envious discord breed.